


Between the Covers

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Good Books, Bad Movies [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Dean in Glasses, Dean makes grownup decisions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, I think I need some hot cocoa, I've never written this many feels, M/M, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Mental Illness, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Pie, Porn with Feelings, Red Shift is really good you should read it, Rimming, Top!Cas, adorable nervous boys, author!Cas, bookseller!Dean, bottom!Dean, furniture as token of affection, just a lil bit of food sex at the end, mentions of suicidal ideation/intent, postcoital awkwardness, this got WAY angstier and romantic than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing story of author!Cas and bookseller!Dean. Time for some backstory, which means time for some angst!</p><p>Sequel to <a href="archiveofourown.org/works/1073126/chapters/2154116">Good Books, Bad Movies</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1158399/chapters/2352763">Next Chapter.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anna tapped her knuckles twice on Dean's office door before slipping inside. "He's here," she said.

"Oh God," said Dean. Despite Cas's texting him every 50 miles or so all day, he felt utterly unprepared for his arrival. "Do I look OK?"

Anna laughed, but considered. Dean's dressed up a little, figuring tonight's the closest they'll come to an official first date. So he found a hunter green button-down (which he has on good authority brings out the gold flecks in his eyes) and dark jeans, and broke the seal on some cologne he got for Valentine's Day three or four relationships ago. Something called vetiver, whatever the hell that was: the smell reminded Dean of the backyard of his childhood home after a rain—grass, wood, and earth. He liked it; hopefully Cas would too.

"You look good," she said finally. "But you should put your glasses back on."

"What? No. I look stupid in those glasses." 

Anna sighed, brushed past him to open the middle drawer of his desk, rummaging through paperclips and promotional pencils, and more than one pair of $20 Walgreens readers (Dean lost and re-found them a lot) until she found some with black rectangular frames and slid them onto his nose before he could protest. "You do not look stupid in glasses, Dean, you look _nerdy,_ and nerds are hot right now. Especially to a sci-fi author, for goodness sake."

"Fine," said Dean. "I'll wear the stupid glasses, but if he laughs it's your fault."

Rolling her eyes, Anna left him to compose himself, pulling his door mostly shut behind her. Dean found a stopping point in the purchase order he was working on and saved it; in the background, he could hear Anna's voice saying something politely, and the answering rumble of Cas's gorgeous fucking voice. He'd gotten off to that voice twice more now, though last night Cas had stopped him when he started up with the filth: "I want to make you come in person," he'd said, as if that wasn't almost enough to do it right there.

Dean took a deep breath and muttered to himself, "Keep it together, Winchester. It's gonna be fine, he's just the hot-as-fuck badass novelist who's driven all day to see you because he hasn't figured out yet what a colossal fuck-up you are. No pressure." He flung his office door wide and literally collided with the man in question. Startled, he jumped back, but didn't get far, because Cas's arms went straight around him as he pulled him in for a kiss.

It was sweet and gentle at first, like the last time they’d kissed; but Dean tilted his head and parted his lips, and Cas made a noise Dean felt more than heard and pushed his tongue eagerly into Dean's mouth. 

There was loud and pointed throat-clearing behind them a minute or so later, and they broke apart, chests heaving in tandem as they caught their breath. 

"Hello, Dean." said Cas. "I like your glasses."

*******

"Thanks," Dean said. He still hadn't stepped away from Cas, just stopped kissing him, which was a frustrating state of affairs. But Dean's employee (one of the women, the taller one. Amy? He should learn names if he was going to be around as much as he intended to be) was right: this was a place of business—Dean's place of business—and Cas had glimpsed at least one flaxen-haired moppet in the store. Sitting on the couch where he'd first kissed Dean, in fact.

God, he wanted to kiss him again. Out of sight of impressionable children.

"How soon can you get out of here?" Cas asked, voice low in the other man's ear.

“Any time,” Dean answered. “Literally any time.”

Cas drove; Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow at the sight of his dilapidated Saab hatchback but said nothing. He rested his left hand on Cas's thigh while he gave directions, squeezing at the turns.

Cas kind of wanted to hold Dean's hand on the stairs, but he didn't, instead letting himself be distracted by Dean's impeccable ass flexing beneath his jeans as he climbed. He was starting to worry, in the face of Dean's continued skepticism that Cas was interested in him for more than sex, that the opposite was the case. Maybe he was pushing affection on someone who didn't want it, who just wanted to fuck him. Maybe he was forcing intimacy too soon. Maybe he was trying too hard—

Dean kicked the door shut as soon as they were through it and slammed Cas against it, swallowing his surprised yelp with his greedy mouth. “Fuck, Cas,” he moaned, dipping his head to nip beneath his jaw, “fuck, Cas, I’ve been wanting you. You’ve wanted me too, right? Tell me.” He slid his hand between Cas’s legs and started coaxing him hard, and Cas sagged dizzy against the door for a moment before grabbing his wrist.

“Wait, Dean, let me, can I put my bag down?” Dean snatched the duffle off his shoulder and dropped it—Cas winced as his laptop clacked against the carpet. Relentless, Dean pressed his hips back hard into the door and dropped to his knees, breath hot on Cas’s fly, and it took immense force of will for Cas to say, “Stop, Dean. Please stop.”

Sitting back on his haunches, Dean looked up at him and frowned. “What’s wrong? Isn’t this what we’ve been talking about for a week, me sucking you off? Come on, I want to.” He reached forward again, and Cas dodged to one side.

“I want you to, believe me. Just give me a minute to settle, OK? Let me look around your place.”

“Sure, whatever,” shrugged Dean. “I mean, it’s a studio, there’s not really a grand tour.”

“I know. I just want to see where you live, where you are when you’re talking to me.” Picking up his bag, he moved further into the tiny apartment. It’s true, there wasn’t much to take in: the narrow kitchen was a step up, the bathroom an alcove. And Dean didn’t have a lot of furniture—a side-of-the-road couch, two or three mismatched dining chairs. Bookshelves, of course, a lot of them: they lined the walls, but were still insufficient to contain Dean’s library, much of which seemed to be in knee-high stacks around the room. 

Then there was the bed, or rather the mattress. “How old are you?” asked Cas.

“Thirty-four,” said Dean. 

“And you don’t have a bed.”

“I have a _bed,_ Cas. I just don’t have a frame. It’s plenty comfortable.” 

“I’m thirty-seven, Dean. I haven’t slept on a mattress on the floor in fifteen years.”

“OK, well, it’ll be nostalgic, then. It really is comfy, Cas. Here, I’ll show you,” and Dean tackled him unceremoniously, landing on top of him with a smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's mouth was searing on Cas's own, his tongue hot and sharp as he licked deep. He smelled like a meadow in summer, sun-baked and green, and Cas wanted to tell him to slow down, that they had all night, that they could have a conversation first, but his senses were drowning and he just wanted _more._ Moaning, he locked Dean in his arms and rolled to the side; Dean went willingly, breath shuddering as he took Cas's full weight, arching up into him with his whole body. 

"Dean," Cas whispered, taking his chin in one hand, "look at me." Dean blinked hard up at him, eyes unfocused with desire. "After we fuck? Please, can we talk?"

"If we fuck first, yeah, anything you want," said Dean, and pulled Cas's mouth to his again.

Not a promising response. But he was weak: Dean was so beautiful, so pliant and demanding at once…Cas decided to just stop thinking for a while and fall into him. 

And pray he didn’t land too hard.

*******

Dean had stopped thinking long ago. Sex was always safer that way. He knew he was good-looking, he knew he was a great lay, he didn't have to worry or analyze anything, just let instinct and muscle memory take over. 

So he forcibly snuffed the spark of something else, something tender and terrifying, that lurked beneath his lust. Instead, he reached for Cas with hands and mouth and hips, pushed up his shirt to run his hands over his illustrated torso.

Cas was already panting, hands shaking as he shucked the henley over his head and then slid them beneath Dean's carefully chosen date shirt. “My God, Dean, I want you like crazy. Last night, I couldn’t help it—I had to jack off after I got off the phone. You make me so fucking hard, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Magic,” said Dean, and moved to take off his glasses.

Cas seized his wrist again, pinned it above his head. “No. Leave those on,” he said. 

“They’ll get in the way,” Dean protested.

“Not if I keep you on your back,” Cas growled. “I want you to see me perfectly when I’m driving into you. When I come buried deep in that perfect ass.” 

“That…is a really convincing argument,” gasped Dean. “Glasses stay on.” He flexed his wrist once, just to make sure he really couldn’t move it; Cas tightened his grip, and Dean’s eyes fluttered shut with a groan as he gave up control. God, he loved being manhandled around a bed—he suspected that was part of why he increasingly leaned towards male partners. He wanted to be dominated, he wanted someone strong; he wanted to be held down and pushed around and for once in his goddamn life not have to make any decisions.

And Cas seemed happy to oblige him, grabbing both his wrists with one hand while the other unbuttoned his shirt and spread it open. He straddled Dean’s hips, rolling their cocks together through denim, and bent to bite and suck at his collarbones, finding a faded hickey to worry anew. “Ow,” murmured Dean, and Cas stopped immediately, shooting him a concerned glance. “No, no, that’s a good ow. It’s all right, you can—you can hurt me a little. Please.”

Cas sat up, pulling Dean upright against him so he could get his shirt off. “I’m not really comfortable when you put it like that? I don’t want to _hurt_ you, Dean, I want to make you feel good.”

“You do, you do! It’s fine, really. I’ll tell you if it’s too much— right now I’m telling you don’t stop, come on, Cas.” Dean toppled back down on the mattress, taking Cas with him.

Gently, Cas bit at his neck again. "Mmm," purred Dean in what he hoped was an unambiguously pleased tone. "Harder." Cas increased the pressure of his teeth steadily while Dean lifted his chin to bare his throat more fully and raked his nails lightly up Cas's sides. Together they negotiated just how hard was too hard—when pain finally spiked too high through Dean's pleasure, he yelped _"Okaythat'senough,"_ and Cas backed off. 

"See?" Dean told him smugly. "I'm not made of glass. It takes a lot to break me."

 _Liar,_ he thought. _He could break you so easily._

As if he'd heard, Cas nodded and said, "Good. Breaking you is not my intention." He shifted his knees between Dean's and nudged his legs wider, reaching down to unfasten his jeans and run slow fingers up his cock where it strained against the fabric. "Tell me what you want next, Dean. Talk me through it like you did on the phone."

Dean whimpered. "It's harder with you here."

"Is it?" Cas said with a smirk, palming his cock more thoroughly.

"That's not— _oh God_ —not what I meant."

"No, of course it’s not. Should I stop?"

 _"No!_ Please, touch me, just like that." Dean lifted his butt so he could get his clothes out of the way, shoving down pants and boxers as far as he could before his spread legs stopped him. It was enough to let Cas get a good grip on his cock, stroking its ridge while his thumb circled the head. He bent further over Dean's chest, shoulder blades jutting like vestigial wings, and sucked a nipple, teasing it with the edge of its teeth while Dean whined with need. "Yes, yes, _please,"_ he panted, no longer sure what he was asking for.

Cas answered his unspoken question: “I assume you have lube handy?”

Nodding, Dean reached up without breaking eye contact to fumble around under the pillows. “I thought ahead,” he said, pressing the needed supplies into Cas’s waiting hand.

“You’re as brilliant as you are beautiful,” murmured Cas, moving to the side so he could strip Dean completely, even peeling off his socks. Dean drew his knees up, frantic to be touched, but Cas held back, standing up to take off his pants, shuffling slightly to balance on the mattress. “Can I just look at you?” he asked, and dropped to his knees at Dean’s feet. “I need this—to see you all at once. I need to memorize you and take you with me.”

 _“Why?”_ blurted Dean. “Why do you have to keep talking like that?” He sat up suddenly and lunged for Cas, kissed him desperately. “Just stop, please. Just fuck me, I can’t take the rest of it.”

*******

Cas pushed Dean to arms’ length, furrowing his brow. Someone had done this to him, he realized—someone had made Dean believe he had nothing to offer but his body. For a moment he couldn’t identify the feeling that surged inside him at the thought; then he realized it was rage. Sheer, unrelenting fury.

Which changed to tenderness when he pulled Dean in, ran a soothing hand over his hair as he pressed him down again, covering as much of his flesh as he could with his own. “Dean, it’s OK,” he breathed into his ear. “It’s OK.” He kept it up like a mantra while he prepped him, sliding his fingers into him reverently; the deliberate pace calmed Dean, and his agitated gasps turned into slow moans.

And the next time Dean whispered, _“Please,”_ it felt almost like a prayer. Cas eased into him with a groan, trembling with the urge to move faster, harder—Dean had to come first, it was somehow the most important thing in the world. He stroked his cock in time with his thrusts, holding Dean’s face with his other hand so he couldn’t look away. Dean’s eyes were wet behind his glasses, and they fell shut as he came with a long, low sigh.

As Cas followed him over the edge, he found himself wishing there was some way his touch could heal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol abuse, mental illness, suicidal ideation/intent.**
> 
>  
> 
> Just FYI, I've given Dean the same diagnosis as mine, since that way I can speak with authority. Don't worry, I'm mostly OK.

Dean headed for the bathroom without a word as soon as Cas pulled out, ducking his head to avoid his gaze. Cas stared at the ceiling for a moment, stunned, before he got up to find the trashcan under the sink; he tossed the condom, washed his hands, filled a glass with water. Leaning back against the counter, he gulped it down, trying to figure out what had just happened. Or, rather, trying to figure out _how_ it had happened.

How he'd just had the most tender, intimate sex of his life with a man he barely knew. One who'd had tears in his eyes as he came.

Dean emerged with wet hair, polishing his glasses on a plush gray robe. Slipping them back on, he looked at Cas in wide-eyed shock, like he’d appeared from nowhere in his kitchen. “Uh,” he started, and closed his mouth. “Uhm. That was intense.”

“Yes,” said Cas, suddenly feeling very naked. He fixed his eyes on Dean’s collarbone where it arced into the gap of the robe; he could see the outline of his teeth raised red on the skin, even from across the room. Why had he done that? He never did that. _Because Dean asked you to,_ he thought. _Because you’d do anything he wanted, and you’ve already lost control completely._ He turned away to run another glass of water and said to the sink, “I’m sorry?”

“No, don’t be! I mean, it was awesome. I think—thank you, I think that’s what I mean to say. I needed that.” Crossing to him swiftly, Dean leaned in to kiss the nape of his neck, resting a hand on one bare hip. The touch went through him like fever, burn and chill at once, and he melted back against Dean with a pleased hum. When Dean tucked his chin over his shoulder, Cas reached for his hands, pulling their interlaced fingers to wrap around his ribcage. He closed his eyes tight and just felt Dean's breath: how Dean's chest expanded to fit the curve of his spine, how Dean exhaled warm into the hollow behind his ear.

It was Dean who broke the embrace, stepping back so suddenly Cas stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the counter. "Are you hungry?" Dean asked after clearing his throat. "We'll have to go out, I don't have food."

Thrown off by the abrupt change of subject, Cas took a minute to answer. "I could eat, sure. But whatever you have is fine—I’ve been snacking all day, so I'm okay without a full meal."

"No, I mean, I really don't have food. Except cereal, but I don't know if the milk's still any good," Dean admitted. "I don't eat here much." He opened the fridge and frowned; over his shoulder, Cas saw he wasn't exaggerating. Besides an array of half-empty condiment bottles (ketchup, mustard, Sriracha) in the door, there was nothing inside but beer, milk, and a pastry box, which Dean pulled out with a crow of triumph. "Shit, I forgot I bought this! You like apple pie, Cas?"

Cas couldn’t help but grin at his delight. He nodded.

“Fantastic. Pie it is, then.”

*******

The pie warmed in the oven while Cas cleaned up, coming out of the bathroom in a black T-shirt and sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips. Dean found himself staring, wanting to run his hands over Cas’s tattooed arms, his tongue over the just-visible strip of pale stomach. Fuck, Cas was gorgeous.

That didn’t excuse what he’d done, though, let down his guard like that. Goddammit, he was pretty sure he’d _cried_ while Cas moved inside him, overcome with emotion—which one, he wasn’t sure, but to show any at all was unacceptable. He had to keep this shallow, for Cas’s sake as well as his own.

Cas made it difficult. When Dean carried over the steaming pie with two forks, he was half-reclining on the arm of the couch, one foot on the floor, and he coaxed Dean to sit between his splayed thighs, lying against him. They ate like that, scooping up apples and crust; it was just a supermarket pie, corn-syrup gooey and underspiced, but still one of the best Dean had ever eaten. Especially the last bite, sucked off of Cas’s sticky fingers as he buried his face in Dean’s hair.

He was still licking cinnamon from the corners of his mouth when Cas said, "You owe me a conversation."

"OK, sure," Dean said, ignoring the way his heart fluttered. "What do you want to talk about? Weather? Books?"

"You," said Cas. "I don't know much about you, Dean, and as I keep saying, I would like to."

Dean shifted uncomfortably and then sat up halfway, moving so his back was on the couch rather than Cas's torso. "Yeah, you keep saying. What do you want to know? I swear, I'm not that interesting."

"I'm interested." Cas reached out to lay one hand on Dean's wrist, circling it with thumb and forefinger. "I think you mentioned a brother once? Older or younger?"

"Younger. Four years." Dean was relieved; Sam was a relatively safe subject, as long as Cas didn't delve too deeply. "He's a lawyer, he and his wife live out in California. They're good kids."

"But far away. Do you see them often?"

"They visit a couple times of year. I don't get out to their place much anymore. I lived with them for a while after"— _too far, too far, go back_ —"for a while."

Cas caught his hesitation, tilted his head quizzically. "After what?"

"It's nothing. After nothing." Dean pulled his arm out of Cas's grip before he knew he was doing it.

"Dean." Cas turned his chin to meet his gaze, blue and piercing and concerned. "You can tell me, you know, it's OK. Please." Dean kept his mouth shut, and Cas took his hand away with a sigh. "Or don't. I won't push anymore, I promise."

But somehow, once the pressure was gone, Dean realized he _wanted_ to tell him. Wanted to share this part of him, this part of his life, even though he still felt fear twisting his stomach in knots. He moved back towards Cas's side of the couch and took a deep breath. "After a bad breakup," he said softly. "A really bad one."

Cas put a tentative hand over his. "I'm sorry, Dean. Do you want to tell me about it?"

Dean nodded and closed his eyes; if he didn't get this out all in one go he'd lose his nerve. "I was living with this woman—Lisa—and her kid. Not my kid. It was right after Sammy went off to college, and then my parents died"—he heard Cas's quick intake of breath, and his hand tightened on Dean's—"they died in a fire. It was electrical, they think.

"So I wasn't doing well. I missed Sam, I missed my parents, and I could've let Lisa and Ben make up for them, but I didn't, I pushed them away instead. And I drank too much. A lot too much. And finally—one night, I fucking _hit Ben._ I hit a kid, and he wasn't even doing anything, I was just fucking trashed, and I just wanted him to go away.

"So, obviously, Lisa dumped me. Like she should've, it was the right thing to do. But then I was really alone, I really didn't have anybody, and I needed someone so bad, I wanted Lisa back so bad, I." Dean stopped for a second, because this was the bad part. This was the part that made people flee.

But Cas moved towards him, arm sliding across his shoulders, and pulled him back into his warmth. "It's OK, Dean," he murmured.

"I know, I know. It's hard," said Dean, and continued: "I threatened to kill myself. I showed up at her house with a gun, I said she had to take me back or I’d shoot myself. And I would’ve done it, too. I wanted to _so much,_ Cas, I just didn’t want to _be_ anymore, it was too hard.” He was crying again. He hated crying in front of people. “Lisa called the police, and they handed me off to the hospital, and I spent a night on suicide watch in the ICU—no privacy, the blinds were open, and someone checked on me every fifteen minutes. It was the worst night of my life.

“And then they sent me to a psych ward for a few weeks. Well, they could only make me stay for a couple of days, but I realized I needed to be there. I needed help. The shrinks say I’m bipolar, except not the kind where you get really manic. Mostly I just get depressed. And I’ve been on meds for years now—they’re pretty good, I’ve never tried to kill myself again. But I’m still…I’m still broken, Cas. I’m pretty shitty at relationships, I haven’t dated anyone since Lisa for more than a month or two. They figure out how fucked up I am and they leave, and they’re right. I’m poison, dammit. You don’t really want me.”

Cas shook his head. “But I do, Dean. I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid of me, but I _do_ want you, all of you. I’m so…so _honored_ you trusted me with this. I can deal.”

“You just think you can. You can’t. You’ll get sick of me. Everyone does.”

“But I’ll _try,_ Dean. Maybe I’ll be different. All I can really do is try, if you’ll let me.” He cupped Dean’s face in his hands, gathered his tears with his thumbs.

Shaking, Dean answered, voice small and afraid. “OK,” he said. “OK, you can try.”


	4. Chapter 4

When his alarm went off, Dean awoke feeling hungover, shame pounding at his temples like a hardware store's worth of hammers. After he'd committed emotional hara-kiri all over Cas, and the latter had bafflingly pledged his troth or whatever, there'd been a lot of kissing. Which led to a lot of groping. Which led to Cas's lean frame sprawled across the couch, his head in Dean's lap, sucking him slowly and thoroughly while Dean clutched at his hair and moaned his name. Then, exhausted, they'd curled up in bed (on mattress) and watched _Game of Thrones_ on Cas's laptop until Dean's eyes refused to stay open. In fact, he definitely fell asleep wearing his glasses—Cas must've taken them off for him. For a moment, he imagined Cas's hands, gentle along his temples; he would've carefully folded in the earpieces, found a place off the floor to put them for safekeeping.

"Oh my God, turn that off," wailed Cas, pulling a pillow over his head and burrowing further under the covers. "It's the middle of the _night,_ Dean."

"It's seven in the morning," mumbled Dean, reaching over to silence the beeping. "That's a reasonable time to wake up."

"It's still dark out. I don't get up before the sun, I’m not a farmer," said Cas as Dean turned back to him. He abandoned the pillow in favor of Dean's chest, nosing at his sternum while he tangled him up in all four limbs. "Let's go back to sleep."

Dean closed his eyes again, reveling in the supple warmth of Cas's body; his usual morning erection soon took on lascivious intent. "We can't sleep, Cas—I have to open the store at eight, and you have to drive me there. But we can stay in bed for a while."

"Mmm, bed is nice," purred Cas, tilting his head to kiss the underside of Dean's jaw. "Bed with you is better."

Dean slid his hands down Cas's back and under the covers, filling his hands with the flesh of his ass and squeezing. "Yeah, I like you here too." One of his hands drifted down over Cas's hip and around to his half-hard cock, tracing its shape with his fingers and grunting in satisfaction as it grew heavier with his touch. “You want a blowjob, Cas?” he asked, longing for that warm weight on his tongue.

Cas shook his head, moved up Dean’s body a little so they were face to face. “I don’t really want to let go of you yet,” he said, and kissed him, close-mouthed but firm.

The shift in position brought their cocks into glancing contact; Dean's breath caught at the hint of friction, wanting more. They reached for each other at the same time—Cas grinned against Dean's lips and switched to use his left hand, slipping his fingers partway through Dean's. Their joined hands forming an awkward circle, they stroked in halting rhythm, maddeningly gentle to keep from chafing. Dean soon threw morning-breath caution to the winds, plunging his tongue deep into Cas's mouth. Cas groaned in response, tugged at Dean's hair until his head fell back, ran his tongue hot up his throat to flicker at his earlobe.

"Harder," said Dean, and Cas bit at his ear and tightened his grip on his cock. "Yeah, like that, but more—wait, just a sec," and Dean wriggled out of Cas's embrace to locate the lube. He slicked them both well, so that they glided alongside each other, smooth and sure; hands now unnecessary, Dean dug his nails into Cas's shoulders instead, turning over onto his back with Cas on top of him.

Bracing himself on his forearms, Cas thrust down as Dean thrust up, their trapped cocks moving easily over yielding flesh. “Oh yeah, that’s it,” moaned Dean as they drove towards orgasm together—their mouths collided almost painfully, and Dean wanted to hold Cas's breathless whimpers under his tongue like a sugar cube soaked in absinthe. 

By some miracle of timing, they came within seconds of each other, so close that Dean’s abrupt _“Fuck, Cas!”_ overlapped Cas’s reverent _“Dean, yes, yes.”_ He looked down at Dean and smiled, and Dean found himself grinning back, headache completely gone.

"Okay, now we're gross," he said after a moment, shifting his sticky stomach against Cas’s.

“Mmm, I suppose,” said Cas with a shrug. “Did you know your eyes crinkle up when you smile?” He brushed one fingertip along Dean’s eyelashes, pausing at the corner. "It's very cute."

Dean gazed up at him, up into those wide guileless eyes, and had the sudden thought that for the rest of his life, sincerity and affection would remind him of a certain shade of blue. It was there for him to take, goddammit, he should just _take_ it. "Be that as it may," he said, giving Cas's shoulders a gentle shove, "I'll feel cuter when I'm clean. Come on, you can get handsy in the shower if you want."

*******

Cas was handsy in the shower, and through breakfast (dry cereal, as the milk was indeed past its prime), and while he drove left-handed the few blocks to the bookstore—curse bucket seats, Dean was far too far away, and he could only scratch up and down the thigh seam of his jeans, the fabric rough under his fingers compared to the remembered texture of Dean’s skin.

Dean seemed preoccupied in the car, his grip loose on Cas’s arm while he tapped his thumb arrhythmically on the jut of his wristbone. As Cas pulled in to idle at the curb in front of Good Books, Bad Movies, Dean tightened his hold and turned to Cas with slightly furrowed brow. "Look," he said, "I think I've been blowing hot and cold on you, and it's probably a huge pain in the ass. I'm gonna cut that shit out, OK? You're a grown man, and you've said you want me a million times, and even though there's a part of me that refuses to believe it, I think that's the part that lies and doesn't want me to have nice things. Like you. You're a nice thing, and I need to just take you at your word, OK? We'll just—we'll just do this. Date, I guess. See what happens."

Pleasantly surprised by this monologue, Cas nodded. "Yes, Dean, that's what I want too. I'm so glad." He leaned across the car to kiss him goodbye.

But as soon as Dean has disappeared into the store, Cas found himself staring at his hands on the steering wheel, quietly panicking. What was he _doing?_ He'd known Dean for ten days, for fuck's sake, and they were already acting like this was a long-term thing, with tearful confessions and romantic sex and vows of commitment. It was too much, too fast; he was behaving totally out of character, like a besotted fool instead of the calm and rational man he prided himself on being.

He remembered his brother Gabe sitting him down after the April fiasco to solemnly suggest a new tattoo: DON'T DATE CRAZY PEOPLE. Maybe he should've gone with it? Instead, he'd told Gabe that "crazy" was a pejorative term used to marginalize the mentally ill, who were far more likely to be victims of violence than perpetrators. "Besides," he'd commented wryly, "I've got the scar to remind me."

But apparently he'd learned nothing.

Because instead of aiming the car towards the highway and home, he turned into the parking lot of the first furniture store he passed, and went inside to buy Dean a bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlie arrived at ten and promptly sent Dean on a coffee run; he was still working off his debt from her wager that Cas would call. (Not that it was a bet he'd minded losing.) "Thanks, jefe," she said through a mouthful of currant scone, and toasted him with her almond-milk latte. "How's the boyfriend?"

"He's not—I don't think he's my boyfriend," said Dean, flustered.

"Pfft," huffed Charlie, crumbs flying. "Dude drove, what, ten hours to come sleep over? 'Boyfriend' is a perfectly cromulent word in this context."

"Fine. Call him what you want. He's fine, thank you for asking."

"Shyeah, he's fine. Those tats alone! I think I dropped a whole level on the Kinsey scale. You're a lucky man, Winchester." She pinched his blushing cheek.

Dean managed to wrap up necessities a couple hours before close; far easier to make it home, he realized, when there was actually something waiting for him.

But he was taken aback by what he saw: Cas with a book propped up on his knees (Alan Garner's _Red Shift,_ Dean noticed approvingly), quietly reading atop..."You bought me a bed?"

Cas's toes shifted tentatively inside his socks. "Surprise?" he said.

"You bought me a _bed,"_ repeated Dean. _Shit,_ he thought, _Charlie might be right._

"Also an electric screwdriver, to put it together. I hope you didn't already have one. Oh, and a pie. Blackberry. I wanted cherry, but they were out—mmmmmph!" said Cas around Dean's tongue, suddenly in his mouth.

Dean kissed the breath out of him, smirking at the flutter-and-thunk of the book sailing across the room and onto the floor as Cas hastily jettisoned it from between them. Pressing him down into the mattress, Dean slipped a knee between his thighs and pulled his mouth away reluctantly to gasp air into his own lungs. "Are you trying to be perfect, Cas?" he asked.

"Well, yes, of course," said Cas, tugging at Dean's belt loops until their hips aligned, rolling his up a little to startle a whimper out of Dean. "How am I doing?"

"Does the scale go up to eleven?" Before Cas could answer, Dean kissed him again, biting gently at his lower lip while he slid a hand beneath his shirt to trace the steep curve of his rib cage. "Mmm, get this off," he said, rucking the fabric up Cas's torso. "Wanna look at your tattoos."

Cas lifted his back off the bed enough for them to work his shirt over his head, and Dean braced himself on one elbow above him, running his fingers slowly over the two dragons emblazoned across his chest: one Western, bat-winged and breathing fire; one Chinese, maned and graceful. He was surprised to feel a ridge of scar tissue hidden in the outline of a flame, and made a mental note to ask about it later; right now, he just wanted to admire. "You have so many," he murmured. "When did you get your first?"

"Sixteen," said Cas. "It's this one." He pointed to a small grayish creature on his left arm, a giant slavering eyeball with tentacles, each topped with an eye of their own.

"A Beholder? You fuckin' nerd," Dean said, dropping a kiss onto the monster's forehead (eyelid, rather).

"I know, I know. I was sixteen! I thought a tattoo might make me look scarier—you know, skinny bookish D&D kid, not a popular combination in a small-town high school."

"You got the shit kicked out of you a lot?"

"For a while, yeah. It's why I started working out, too. It worked eventually, once I had enough ink and could fight back."

“I’m sorry.”

“Ehn, I’m fine now. The assholes who beat me up are still stuck there, and I’m a bestselling novelist. And I make enough money to treat the hot bookseller I’m dating to only the finest particleboard furniture.”

Dean laughed out loud, then bent his head to flick his tongue over a nipple, fumbling with Cas’s fly. “You’re gonna help me break it in, I assume?”

“That’s what we’re doing right now.” Cas pulled him down for a kiss. “Are you planning to top? I’m okay with that.”

Dean considered. He didn’t usually top when he slept with guys, and if he did, it was usually the first time they were together—knowing how amazing Cas felt inside him, it was difficult to pass up. Shaking his head, he said “No, not tonight. I thought I’d brace myself against the headboard, and you could pound me from behind? See if we can dent the wall.”

Cas groaned and nodded; heat pooled in Dean’s stomach in anticipation. Moving back to pull Cas’s pants down and off, he added, “First I want your cock in my mouth, though. I wanted to this morning, and now I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Show, don’t tell,” Cas growled, grabbing for the back of his neck. Dean let himself be guided downward to his cock, eagerly licking up the shaft and mouthing at the head while he made himself comfortable between Cas's spread thighs. Once settled, he wrapped a hand around the base and took the rest into his mouth with a sigh; Cas echoed the noise, high and helpless. 

"God, Dean, your _mouth,"_ he whined, and petted the hair at the nape of his neck. When Dean laid his own hand over it and tugged, Cas got the hint, burying his fingers in Dean's hair and pulling harder, drawing a happy hum from Dean that vibrated through his cock. Dean licked and sucked, twisting his wrist while using his other hand to stroke beneath Cas's balls, nudging up against the pressure of his mouth until Cas's breath came in hitching gasps, his whole body shaking with pleasure. "Stop, please, wait, I need to fuck you," Cas stammered, and Dean pulled off with a satisfied slurp.

In short order, Cas had him on all fours, shoved his hands up to curl around the slats of the headboard, and dragged his pants and boxers down to his knees. Dean arched his back like a cat in the sun at the feeling of Cas's tongue slipping between his cheeks to lick at his hole, groaning as the tip breached him. Pushing Dean’s shirts up to gather at his armpits, Cas scratched slowly up his spine, breaking contact as little as possible when he fetched lube and a condom from the floor next to the bed—still, Dean made noises of complaint until he was filled again, skilled fingers working him open while Cas bent over him, resting his forehead between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“Now, Cas, I want you,” Dean half-sobbed, and then Cas was thrusting in, and Dean tightened his grip on the faux-mahogany boards until his knuckles were white with effort. 

“You feel so good,” Cas whispered in his ear as he rested inside him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. He moved back and plunged forward, his thrusts slow and firm, his skin so warm against Dean’s own, the crests and hollows of their bodies molding to each other’s—and where Dean had felt fear was instead a sharp, clear joy. He came with a shout and collapsed onto the bed; Cas fell with him, fucking him harder and faster until he spent himself with a whimper.

Later, Dean licked pie filling off Cas’s flawless stomach, and resolved to get used to being this content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwwww. We'll just leave them there for a bit, happy sticky darlings.


End file.
